The Reign of Diablo
by B.H. Miles
Summary: Follow the adventure of Lachdanan, the holy knight who had been with the king of Westmarch when Diablo had risen from Tristam. From the depths of the monastery, to the cold plains of the northern highlands, Lachdanan and his men begin their mission to end


The red sun rose the morning after the slaughter of the butcher. A great demon who swung a great axe, but was brought down by many arrows and bolts. The group had to make camp in the second level of the labyrinth, not far from the rotting chamber of the butcher, which stunk as though a hundred slain bodies lay there. There were thirty men left in Lachdanan's party, slowly making their way out of the dark catacombs. It had taken them the day before just to arrive from the third to the second level, and now a new day rose, so the obvious plan was to search for the first floor.  
Lachdanan was the first to awake, and alerted the men that stood guard most of the night to wake the others. He watched as slowly, all of his men rose and gathered their equipment. Warriors and archers were all they were, other than followers of the light. But one thing was on Lachdanan's mind that couldn't escape his thoughts: the food supply. He knew that if it took more than a day to escape the cursed monastery, the men may starve.  
Sighing, he walked away from the party, seeing a wounded scavenger laying on the floor. All of its legs were cut, bruised, or amputated, so the creature wasn't moving from its spot. Lachdanan drew his sword, and gave the demon a quick strike to end it's suffering. Even though it was a terrible dark creature that came from the heart of an unknown demon lord, Lachdanan believed that no one should suffer. Not even the king of Khanduras.  
He drew back his sword, when suddenly the only human blood on his sword caught his eye. The blood of his corrupt king still shone on his sword as if he had slain the man only a few moments ago. Perhaps his deepest regret was the greatest thing that he could do for his land.  
He returned to the camp. He called upon for Neoryn, one of his trusted lieutenants.  
"Have you slept well, my friend?" he asked.  
"In the few moments I slept, sir. I doubt many men here have had sweet dreams where nightmares are born," he replied.  
"Well, Neoryn, as long as you keep your eyes awake and your bow ready, then it is all the sleep you will need."  
"Aye, sir."  
"Well, we leave now. Come now, wemove!" he yelled to his fellow crusaders.  
Lachdanan adjusted his gothic plate, which fit a litle too tight. He had lost his helm while combating the butcher, but it didn't seem to help him much now. The dark labyrinth was hot enough to boil an egg, so the less armor he wore, the cooler air for him. He tightened his ancient shield onto his left forearm.  
Slowly, row by row, archers behind the warriors, he took the front as they moved accross the monastery floors. A few skeletons and zombies made their gruesome way into their sight, but soon a blade would slice their limbs, or an arrow would shatter their bones.  
After an hour of slow, somewhat painful, searching, they finally found the staircase that led up t the first floor. Once one of the men cried "There, Lachdanan, up ahead!", the men all replied with a good shout, and quickly made their way to the staircase.  
With a grin, Lachdanan let all the men go up first, glad to see the warriors with more spirit them grim. Soon after the first and second were out of sight and up the stairs, cries of pain were heard coming from the top floor. Although the men were frightened, they were so eager to get nearer to an exit that the ones who paused at the front were pushed up. Finally, after at least a dozen were burned and battered, Lachdanan made them retreat, back down onto the second level.  
Quickly, Lachdanan ran to the front of his gathering men. One victim of the flames uptop survived, so he quickly began questioning.  
"What was it, lad?" he began. Slowly, the burn victim's eyes began to close. "Come on, stay with me, son."  
"The arch...archbisho...shop..." the warrior spoke, but slowly, his pulse faded, and another casualty was added.  
"Lazarus..." Lachdanan told himself. He knew the archbishop was in on the king's corruption, but it was terrible for him to even go after his innocent men. He would pay. "Stay back, men. I'll take care of the Archbishop."  
Lazarus tightened his grip on his sword hilt, and rose up the stairs as fast as he could. He peeked the corner of his eye to look the bishop in the eyes. Of course, there he stood, looking over the corpses he made. Fire still stained their clothes, and the scent of burning flesh filled the air. Suddenly, he moved from the wall, standing straight still, looking at to the murderer.  
"Oh, good," began Lazarus, "I was worried that I had taken you to the afterlife the easy way. I'm to see your face one last time."  
"Don't toy with me, you bastard," Lachdanan began.  
"Oh my, such words for such a man," replied the archbishop. He played with his staff, as he made the serpent head hiss at his touch.  
"I've been waiting for my revenge on you, Lazarus, ever snice you returned from Tristam-"  
"And yet, here we find ourselves again. A coincidence, I must say. Don't you think?"  
"Alright, you rotten scum. In the name of the holy Zakarum, in the aweful fate of the king of Westmarch, and the rest of the holy world, and shall make sure your blood stains this sword of mine."  
"Funny how you mention that, my good Lachdanan. Much has happened since the blackening of the king's heart. But what am I to say, I'm sure you'll find out for yourself."  
"I'm not here to sit and convers about our daily affairs, Lazarus! Now, are you prepared to taste cold steel or shall I even give you the choice?"  
"A little over confident, are we?"  
"I will not waste anymore time!" He began to charge at Lazarus, as the sorcerer held his staff ready for the holy knight.  
"Come at me, you poor exuse of a paladin!" yelled the archbishop. 


End file.
